by Whitley Gray
“You’re cheating, Beck. This is not the way we play the game.”
“Wrong. The game is over.”
The man laughed and stood; the genuine amusement was beyond creepy. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Brian. Brian, the scarab collector.”
The Follower froze. “You touched them.”
Beck shrugged his good shoulder.
“You touched them.” The Follower’s eyes seemed to glow. “You’re not worthy.”
More concern about stone beetles than the human beings he’d mutilated and killed. Beck needed to disable him. “You’re under arrest.”
“Not in this lifetime.” The Follower—Brian—moved a step closer.
Beck couldn’t see whether the Follower had the Taser; wouldn’t he have used it by now? Beck brandished the knife. “Hands on your head.”
Another step closer. “No.”
This had to end fast. Beck was spent and not up to a fistfight, and the Follower had the advantage if they fought over the knife. Beck circled; the Follower did the same.
Now or never.
Taking a deep breath, Beck whipped the knife upward. The man’s gaze followed the trajectory. Beck kicked him in the gut, sole connecting with solid muscles and leaving a bloody footprint. The Follower stumbled backward, crashed against the stone fireplace with a sickening thud, and slid to the floor. For what seemed an eternity, he lay inert And then he appeared to resurrect himself. He pushed to his feet, smiling. “It’s almost time, Beck.”
Time?
The Follower nodded at Beck’s leg. “Can you feel it?”
He glanced down. A steady trickle of blood ran from the sheath. Beck stood in a puddle of blood. Shit. Had he injured his vein? His leg ached, but no worse than before the kick. Another glimpse. His shorts weren’t bloody—it was the stopcock. Using his left hand, Beck tried to work it shut.
“Hard to close one-handed, Beck. Who knows how much blood you’ve lost by now?”
Beck risked a look. Still open. The blood made the stopcock slippery and difficult to turn to the off position. It was a two-handed job, but no way would he chance it. This would be a great time to show up, Zach.
“You’re losing blood,” Beck said. Dark red streams ran from a gash in the other man’s head.
Gait choppy, the Follower began to circle. “Soon the bleeding will make your pressure drop so low you’ll pass out. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure you’re conscious when I carve your number and take your heart.”
Do…not…pass…out. Come on, adrenaline. Beck crimped the tubing on the sheath, stopping the flow. Better than nothing.
“Clever.” The Follower nodded. “You are such a beautiful challenge. A reward for Khepri.”
The bizarre compliment made Beck shiver. What a fucking psycho.
The Follower pulled a scalpel from his hip pocket and tossed away the cover. If he got close enough to use it, he’d be in range of Beck’s knife. It was a matter of who got in the first strike. Beck watched the scalpel.
Abruptly, the Follower dropped to the floor. He kicked out and caught the side of Beck’s left knee. It burst into a sickening throb. Beck went down, striking his head hard enough to see stars. The knife stabbed into the floor, vibrating.
Sorry, Zach. Sorry I couldn’t last long enough.
“Back to the cellar. It’s time.” Panting, Brian wiped the blood out of his eyes. There was no amusement there, only insane purpose.
No. Beck sat up, clutched the handle, and tried yanking the blade loose. Brian rushed forward. As he reached for the knife, Brian slipped in the pool of Beck’s blood, screamed, and fell toward Beck. The blade came free; Beck thrust it upward.
BEETLE GASPED AND rolled onto his back.
The knife didn’t feel anything like he’d imagined. It stung entering the skin. It slipped easily between his ribs—sharp but not painful. It declared its presence with fullness, a hard-to-pinpoint ache, but not pain. He could feel the blade moving inside his heart, swinging to and fro with every contraction of that vital muscle.
He couldn’t speak, could barely breathe.
The change was here.
The Aztecs believed it took five tries to create the earth; the sun required blood sacrifices to continue in its diurnal routine. Beetle hadn’t accomplished the requisite five attempts, but he had managed the first three, numbering them as he went.
He’d made the blood offerings. He’d raised the beating hearts to the insatiable sun. He’d fed the heart of the numberless one to a noble priest, Xav. Beetle had honored Khepri, Egyptian god of scarab and sunrise and rebirth.
And it had been enough. He was changing: a lowly beetle into a god.
A sanguineous pool dampened his shirt. Lacerated right ventricle, of course. His mortal heart had sustained a life-threatening perforation, but it didn’t matter. He would soon have the heart of a god.
Panting, Beetle clutched the phalangeal necklace and stared at the cracked ceiling. There it was: the water stain, shaped like a scarab.
I see you, Khepri. I have sacrificed for you. Take me home.
It was becoming colder, darker, turning from spring to winter as the heat left his body. Breathing took herculean effort. From far away someone called Brian.
No, no. Call me eidolon, ghost, specter, spirit. I am the one.
Not just a pretend god by name change, but a real one by birth and sacrifice. The scarab on the ceiling glowed gold and smiled. Beetle closed his eyes, leaving behind mortality for weightlessness, light, and freedom.
I am Khepri.
* * * *
It didn’t look good.
Zach, accompanied by members of DPD, the Park County Sheriff’s Department, the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, and the Denver FBI office, closed in on the dilapidated cabin.
The place was falling apart. Literally. There were no houses within a mile. The only sounds were songbirds and the drowsy hum of insects. There were fresh tracks in the makeshift dirt parking area but no vehicles.
Yet the front door stood half-open.
“We need to get in there,” Zach told a Park County sheriff’s deputy. “Are your men in place out back?”
“Should be.”
Zach glanced at Van. “On my count. One…two…three.”
They did a controlled entry. Zach led, cautiously nudging open the door. So much blood. Two men lay on the floor in a lake of blood: one unnaturally still, a knife protruding from his chest; the other still breathing—crimson smeared over his chest, arms, and left leg.
Zach knelt beside him. Jesus Christ. It was Beck, beaten, bruised, and oh so bloody. “Beck?”
No response. What did he do to you? I can’t be too late. Zach yelled, “Get the paramedics in here!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zach paced the hall outside the surgery suites, drinking bad coffee and waiting impatiently. Finally a harried-looking woman in scrubs walked toward him. “Special Agent Littman?”
“Yes.” Zach tried to control his shaking hands. It didn’t help that his heart was thumping at a frantic pace. “How is he?”
“He’s banged up. There may be a slight concussion. Most of the knife wounds are superficial. The scar on his shoulder is cut up, but we were able to suture it. The wounds to the shoulder joint are going to require orthopedic evaluation, but that can wait. We took the central line out, and his femoral vein seems okay. He’s lost a lot of blood and needs three or four units.”
The medical side of Zach absorbed all that and concluded Beck would be okay. But seeing was believing.
“Can I visit him?” Zach tried to hide the desperation in his voice.
“He needs rest.”
“I won’t stay long. Just…please.”
She looked away and then back. “He’s your partner in some way?”
In all ways. “Yes.”
“Room 205.”
“Thank you.” Zach went at a fast walk until he turned the corner into the room.
Beck la
y on his back, pale as the pillowcase. Dressings covered his chest, left shoulder, and forearms. Hair matted, nose bruised, chafe marks around his wrists. Clear IV fluids ran into one arm, blood into the other.
Alive.
Quietly, Zach walked to the bedside. Must’ve given Beck good drugs, because he seemed down for the count. After all he’d been through, he deserved a little narcotic-induced nap.
“Sorry I wasn’t faster,” Zach whispered.
Beck didn’t move, deep in the sleep of the righteously medicated.
For the next two hours, Zach drank coffee while counting Beck’s breaths and watching the heart monitor trip the light fantastic. A nurse came in, changed out the blood bag, and left.
Zach closed his eyes. He woke when a wide-eyed kid from dietary set a tray on Beck’s table. Half a minute later, the boy was back with a second meal. “The nurses said to give this to you.”
“Thanks.” Hospital mac and cheese had never looked so good. Beck didn’t stir to consume his clear liquids; Zach ate and watched over him. During a showing of some techno thriller on TV, Zach drifted off.
* * * *
“Zach?”
Zach’s eyes popped open. “Here.” Stifling a yawn, Zach went to the bedside. He kissed Beck’s forehead and clutched his hand in both of his own. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You look pretty damn good to me.”
“Not going to win any pageants.” Beck squinted at the blood bag. “My shoulder hurts. You saw the pictures?”
Zach nodded. He wouldn’t forget those anytime soon.
“After I get out of here, I’ll call my orthopedist.” Beck briefed Zach on the abduction, the RV, and the fight.
“He was a psychopath.” One of the smartest and most creative Zach had come across. “Obsessed with human sacrifice and the Egyptian sun god.”
“He’s…dead, right?”
“He didn’t survive.” The antique blade had pierced the heart.
“Thanks for finding me,” Beck said with a tired smile.
Zach’s eyes burned. “Always.”
* * * *
In the morning Beck wanted out of the hospital. He ached all over and wanted his own bed. After what he’d been through, a little normalcy sure as hell was in order. The doctor discharged him after he could sit up and take nourishment. From there he endured debriefings by multiple agencies, finally landing home in the afternoon.
Stiff-legged, Beck made his way to the couch and eased down onto the cushions. Had it been just forty-eight hours ago they’d headed out to dinner before the bed-and-breakfast?
“Coffee?” Zach asked.
Beck nodded. He was supposed to push fluids.
“I’ll be back.”
Home. Alive and mostly well. The long-distance-relationship issue was small potatoes compared to having someone who would move heaven and earth to find you. Now if that someone would just stay…
“Zach, I’m going to change.” The jeans put pressure on his femoral-vein site.
“Need help?”
“Nah. I can get it.” He levered himself off the couch and down the hall. The bedroom door stood half-open, revealing rumpled sheets. Beck pushed it wide.
No boxes.
Had Zach started moving out? Wearily Beck limped inside and pulled open a drawer. Zach’s briefs and socks. Quickly he went through the rest of the dresser. Zach had…unpacked? He must’ve done it this morning when he went home to shower.
The picture of the woods with the lost red shoe had disappeared. In its place was a lovely watercolor of Pikes Peak in shades of blue and purple, the kind of landscape that made waking up a pleasure.
In the bathroom, Zach’s dopp kit was nowhere in sight. Instead, toothbrushes sat in twin glasses. Buttery towels were stacked on the shelf. Beck went to the bedroom window. Two lawn chairs in the backyard.
“I’m staying,” Zach said from behind him.
Beck turned. “What about the ASAC position?”
Zach shrugged. “If they want me bad enough, they’ll make the position available in Denver. Otherwise…I guess I’m unemployed.”
“We can go back to the long-distance thing, Zach. I’m willing to do that so you can take the job. Don’t turn the job down out of guilt.”
“I’m not. We’re better together than we are apart.”
Beck settled on the end of the bed. “Are you going to be happy if you’re not tracking down America’s psychos for the FBI?”
“I think it’s time the FBI accommodated me.” Zach sat next to him. “And if they can’t? Well, Colorado’s got alphabet agencies too.”
“That’s not the same—”
“What wouldn’t be the same is not having you. A nutcase almost took you away from me. I don’t intend to risk that again.” Zach put an arm around Beck, a warm, welcome weight.
“So…” Beck said with a grin. “Partners?”
“Partners.” Zach’s eyes were full of promise. “I love you, John Beckworth Stryker.”
“Love you too, Zachary Amadeus Littman.”
The surprise on Zach’s face was comical. “How…how do you know my middle name?”
“Well, it can’t have escaped your notice that I am a detective.” Beck fought back a laugh.
Zach shook his head. “Now you know my darkest secret, Stryker.”
“If that’s the darkest one, we’re going to be just fine.”
Loose Id Titles by Whitley Gray
Crash Pad
Midwinter Night’s Dream
* * * *
Stacking the Deck
(an Eostre’s Baskets story)
* * * *
The CONCEPTS Series
High Concept
Cold-Hearted Concept
Whitley Gray
Whitley lives in the Rocky Mountain West, and works at a major medical center. Her medically based stories involve events that *ahem* never take place in a real hospital. She has a very understanding family, who put up with long sojourns at the computer and bring her ice cream.